


Making an Ass of U and Me

by MagnetoTheMagnificent



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aliens, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Birthday, Bisexual William Shakespeare, Bored Crowley (Good Omens), Bubonic Plague, Campfires, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Dyslexic Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), HIV/AIDS Crisis, Heavy Angst, Hell Is Awful, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Interrogation, Julius Caesar - Freeform, Major character death - Freeform, McCarthyism, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, POV Outsider, Pandemics, Queen (Band) References, References to Shakespeare, Self-Harm, Shakespearean Sonnets, Since he was only discorporated, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Spies & Secret Agents, The Bentley - Freeform, Traumatized Crowley (Good Omens), but still there, he's in the background, mail, not really - Freeform, pluto is a planet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnetoTheMagnificent/pseuds/MagnetoTheMagnificent
Summary: A collection of the many assumptions that have been made about Crowley. (Hence the title. SFW, I promise)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Freddie Mercury, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 13
Kudos: 110





	1. Introduction

While many assumptions can be made of the Angel Aziraphale, an equal, if not more assumptions can be made of his counterpart, the Demon Crowley. With his pale, gaunt appearance and keen sense of fashion, it is easy to come to conclusions about who he is. Most assumptions that people make, however, are wrong, however outlandish they are. Over the years, Crowley had collected for his name a great many assumptions. Here are a few of the most notable assumptions made of the Angel that did not so much Fall, rather saunter vaguely downwards.


	2. Eden

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” the Principality asked the Serpent. 

“ _Kill_ you? Why, that would be rather cowardly of me, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, seeing as you’re a demon and all, I would assume…”

At that, the Serpent laughed.  
“Well, you know what they say about what happens when you assume,” he chuckled, leaning back onto the grass.

“..No, should I?”

“It makes an Ass out of U and Me,’’ the Serpent told him, his golden eyes glimmering.

The Principality looked confused, unsure if the Serpent was mocking him.  
“Pardon?”

The Serpent went silent, and sat up.  
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said softly, idly playing with a blade of grass.

“Well,” the Principality coughed, “that’s very kind of you.”

“‘Nother ‘ssumption there, Angel,” the Serpent responded wryly. 

“Oh! Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize, uh-”

“Aziraphale”

“Well,” the Serpent smiled, revealing polished fangs.  
“No need to apologize, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked away, avoiding meeting the Serpent’s gaze.  
“It looks like the rain’s letting up,” he remarked, glancing at the sky. 

The Serpent peaked out from under the Angel’s wing.  
“So it issss”

“Shall we leave the garden?” Aziraphale offered.

“ _We_?” the Serpent mouthed, quiet enough so the Angel wouldn’t hear. He bit his lip.

“Unless, of course, you’re returning, to, err, Downstairs,” the Angel added quickly. 

“No!” the Serpent answered hastily.  
“I mean, they’re not expecting me down there quite yet, so I, uh, guesssss I could explore thisssss Earth a bit.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded. 

The Serpent rose to his scaly feet, wobbling a little.  
“Don’t quite think the Almighty intended for me to have these,” he muttered. 

“Oh, yes, these corporations do take some getting used to, Crawly, is it?” Aziraphale remarked.

“Yeah, Crawly, that’sssss me” he confirmed, trying to bow but wincing. Aziraphale didn’t notice. 

The Principality began walking out into the desert, and Crawly tried to follow.  
“Is it supposed to hurt?” he asked, but the Angel was too far ahead of him to hear. 

With uncertain and painful steps, the Serpent slowly followed the Principality out into the young world.


	3. Edom

“What’s thissssss?” Crawly said to himself when he stumbled upon a few jugs. 

He flicked his tongue out. Wine. 

“A little sssssip couldn’t hurt,” he reasoned, bringing one of the jugs to his dry lips. 

Oh, that was refreshing. He had been thirsty. And tired. It had been a string of temptations, one after the other. They weren’t even the fun kind, either. Maybe he needed a bit more than a little sip….

“Hey, what are you doing?!” 

A voice stirred Crawly out of his drunken sleep. He rubbed his eyes, and scrambled to his feet.  
A tall, burly human was coming closer. 

“Whazzat?” he said blearily, trying to steady himself. The alcohol was not making it any easier. 

“Were you trying to steal my wine?” the man asked angrily. 

“Sssssteal? Why would I- why would I do that?”

The man was standing right in front of Crawly now, towering over him.  
The demon’s knees began shaking, and he felt himself begin to fall. He held his hands in front of him to catch himself, and fell onto the man. 

“Ssssssorry!” Crawly slurred, trying to get away. 

The man punched the demon. Apparently he thought the demon was trying to attack him.  
Crawly fell backwards, only for the human to sock him in the jaw. That hurt. 

“Hey! Stop! M not-” he tried protesting, but the man ignored his pleas, and continued beating him.

Scales rippled across Crawly’s skin, and Crawly grimaced. He didn’t want to hurt this human. Not over a silly misunderstanding. His eyes flashed, and his fangs lengthened. 

The human continued striking him, and Crawly couldn’t restrain his demonic side any longer. He lashed at the man, throwing him off his body and onto the ground. The man groaned, and Crawly heard the sound of bone dislocating. At least he was alive. 

“J-just let me go, t-the sun’s coming up,” Crawly begged, trying to hold down the beast inside. 

The man’s eyes widened in awe as he realized he was dealing with something more than human.  
“You can’t go. I won’t let you. Not unless you bless me,” the man insisted, his face hardened in determination.

The audacity of the human! Crawly had to admit, he was impressed. Still, he had it all wrong. The man thought _he_ was an angel! He’d have to tell Aziraphale when he next saw him, Crawly thought. 

“What’sssss your name?” Crawly asked the brave human.

“Yaakov,” the man answered. 

Crawly thought for a moment. What could he give the man?  
“Your name won’t be Yaakov anymore,” he finally said.

“Insssstead, you’ll be called Yisssssrael, because you challenged God and man, and sssssurvived.”

Yaakov blinked in surprise. Crawly suppressed a smile. Humans were so daring, and despite himself, he was beginning to grow fond. He turned to leave, and hopefully find a place to recuperate. 

“What’s your name?” Yaakov called after him.

Crawly scoffed.  
“Don’t try to assssssk my name,” he hissed, and limped away.


	4. The Dark Ages

Oh, how Crowley hated the 14th century. He trod through the narrow, dingy streets, his skin prickling at the stench of death that clung to everything in that miserable city. His scaly foot caught on something, and he looked down. It was a corpse, half eaten by rats. Crowley felt sick. He looked away, being unable to bear looking at the corpse as he pushed it aside with his cane. 

The demon pushed forward, staring straight ahead, trying to block out his bleak surroundings.  
When he reached his house in the outskirts of the city, he could barely make it through the door before collapsing of exhaustion. He was tired, oh, so very tired. 

He took a swig of stale beer before laying on his cot. As he looked up at the thatched roof, he wondered if he could just sleep the century away. It wouldn’t be hard.  
His serpentine eyes drifted out of focus, and the demon soon fell asleep.

A week later, two humans visited Crowley’s house. They hadn’t seen him at the tavern that he frequented, and with the plague scouring the city, they wanted to make sure he didn’t catch it. If he did, they would have to mark his house as tainted. 

“Master Crowley? Are you in?” they called, knocking at his door. 

When they received no answer, they tentatively pushed his door open.

“Oh, Sweet Mother of God!” one exclaimed when they saw Crowley. 

Crowley, being of a reptilian sort, and a demon, didn’t exactly sleep like a human would. For one, he didn’t close his eyes when sleeping, which, to a snake, would seem perfectly normal. Additionally, because the Little Ice Age was in full force at this point, Crowley had accidentally entered brumation during his nap. If an undiscerning human saw Crowley in such a state, they would assume he was dead. 

That is exactly what happened when the two humans, Giles and Peter, found Crowley. 

“Oh dear. We’ll have to call the undertaker,” Giles said sadly.

“He was my best customer. Keeping my tavern open even despite the curfew,” Peter remarked, shaking his head. 

“Do you think we should call a priest to do last rites?” Giles asked as they walked to the undertaker. 

Peter shook his head.  
“I don’t think so. I think he’s…. Y’know…” he gestured, trying to convey the meaning.

Giles gasped.  
“No! _Him_?”

Peter nodded.  
“I’ve never seen ‘im in Church. And he does keep to himself,” he reasoned. 

“And he does have a _different_ sort of air about him,” Giles agreed, seeing Peter’s point. 

“Never would’ve guessed,” he murmured. 

Crowley didn’t stir when the undertakers tossed him onto the wagon with the other, actually dead, corpses. If there was one thing the demon was good at, it was sleeping, and he was certainly a deep sleeper. Unfortunately for Crowley, the plague graves were becoming inconvenient, and the undertakers decided to burn this batch of corpses. 

That was how Crowley found himself discorperating in the middle of a funeral pyre. Burning alive is never a fun way to go, and it’s especially not a fun way to be woken up from a nap. Of course, he couldn’t exactly jump out of the fire. That would scare the humans, not to mention really make it difficult to keep a low profile. He would be known as the man who came back to life. They might even make him a saint, and that really wouldn’t look good on his record. So he grit his teeth and bit down his screams until he was well and fully discorperated. 

He spent the next few decades filling out the necessary paperwork, as well as enduring the jeers from the other demons at how he got himself discorporated. He really hated the 14th century.


	5. Elizabethan Era

“Are you a spectre?” 

Crowley whirled around. She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the theatre this late at night. She was hoping to loosen some riggings, not enough to ruin the next performance, but enough to enrage the Bard.  
The Bard, it seemed, was indeed in the theatre, staring at her. 

“Um….why would you asssssssume that?” she asked nervously, pushing her tinted lenses further up her nose.

“You are remarkably ashen, hollow, and drift about as if disembodied,” William explained, walking closer to her.

Crowley laughed uncomfortably.  
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have no experience with women,” she said dryly. 

William chuckled, as if told a joke.  
“Why are you here, my lady?” he asked softly, circling her. 

Crowley searched her brain for a good answer.  
“Errr, I wanted to see what the theatre looked like during an off-night.” 

“Oh. You’ve seen my plays, then?” 

“Only the funny ones,” Crowley admitted. 

The playwright smiled broadly.  
“Well, I do aim to please, madam.”

The demon leaned against a post, her legs beginning to hurt.  
“Well, I’ve seen the place, so I’d better head out,” she told William, feigning reluctance.

“Oh, do stay for a drink,” he insisted, “I’ve been unable to sleep, wracking my head for ideas.”

“Propositioning, are you? You don’t even know my name!” Crowley teased.

“Oh no, I would never!” William protested, but his blushing cheeks said otherwise. 

Quite a few drinks later, Crowley had given the playwright quite a few ideas for new plays. 

“Right, uh, so my point is,” Crowley gulped, “Julius Caesar!”

“What about Julius Caesar? Tyrant, right?” 

“Right, right. What I mean is, teamwork”

“Teamwork?”

“Yup. Right. Lots of sssenators, whole load of ‘em, told me, errrrrrr, uh, them, that they would stab ‘em-”

“Stab who?”

“Caesar”

“Right”

“Anyway, sssssssooo, they sssaid they would ssstab him, but a whole lot of ‘em ducked- err- chickened out. I mean, what kind of work ethic is that?” 

“They still killed him, though,” William shrugged, pouring himself another goblet of wine. 

“Yeah, I guesssssss…….”

William held back a belch, and then an idea struck him.  
“What if- what if they regretted it?” he suggested.

“Oh no,” Crowley shook her head, “they didn’t regret it.”

“But what if they did?” William prodded, kicking his feet up on the table.

“What if there was _romance_?” he added, waggling his eyebrows. 

Crowley scoffed.  
“Oh, ssssssod it, you and your tragedies!” she groaned, pulling off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. 

When she looked up, she saw William staring at her, agape.  
“What?” 

William blinked.  
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, leaning close. 

Crowley cringed, and sighed internally.  
“I’m hellish,” she responded, scooting away in her seat. 

“You’re ravishing. Especially your eyes. They’re nothing like the sun, brighter, yet darker.”

“They’re demonic. And you’re drunk,” Crowley told him, rising from her seat, and sobering.

“Be my muse!” William exclaimed, kneeling in front of her.

“You’d do better with others, Will.”

“No one can compare to you! I’ve fallen to your devilish allure,” he confessed, swaying slightly.

“Believe me, Will, that was _not_ my intention,” Crowley asserted, straightening her skirts.

“You are the fairest and most precious jewel,” William tried, very, very inebriated now. 

“Flattered. But I must go.”

She turned to leave.  
“It was nice knowing you, Will. Maybe we could be friends, when you’re more sober.”


	6. Red Scare

There isn’t one grand entrance to Hell, nor is there one way to get into Hell. You can’t get into Hell by opening some cursed trapdoor- no, you have to earn it. If the road to Hell is paved with frozen door-to-door salesmen, then, on that accord, the floors of Hell are paved with politicians. Ever since the turn of the century, Hell had had to go through some renovations to accommodate the influx of damned souls. By the end of the second World War, they were in need of some new flooring.  
That is how Crowley found himself ordered to leave London for the United States, which, by the 1950s, was ripe for temptations. Unfortunately, they weren’t the fun kind of temptations. The Americans, especially the politicians, whom Crowley had been given a special order to target, were just too easy to corrupt. All he had to do was whisper the word ‘Commie’ in a crowded cinema, and suddenly they were all at each other’s throats. He just didn’t get the satisfaction, he didn’t have to work hard at all. It wasn’t like the Bathing Machine Incident, when he carefully coordinated all the bathing machines to get caught in the wet sand. Additionally, the Americans had become fanatically puritanical, so he couldn’t even have any non-temptation related fun.

Crowley nearly squealed in glee when Aziraphale gave him a call about a blessing to perform in the Supreme Court. Now he had at least something to do. Okay, so maybe he went overboard with a unanimous decision, but it was for a cause he believed in, and kids were involved, for somebody’s sake. Aziraphale was sure to get a commendation for this one.  
But, now that the high from his blessing’s success had worn off, he was once again bored, and moped around his flat, trying to find something to do. Maybe he should give Aziraphale another call, see if there were any more blessings to perform. He went downstairs to the building’s mails slot. Maybe there would be another letter from Aziraphale. When was the last letter? Last week? He couldn’t remember. When he turned around from peeking in his mail slot, which was, sadly, empty, he found two large men in dark suits standing behind him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Crowley,” one of the men said ominously. 

Crowley squinted, trying to see if he recognized them from somewhere, but it was hard to discern anything, since they, too, were wearing sunglasses. 

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked once he had concluded that he had, indeed, not recognized those men. 

“No, but we know you, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.  
“Do you?”

One of the men took out a badge and held it up to Crowley’s face.  
“I’m Agent Carlton, and this is Agent Wilson. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

Oh, this was just wonderful.  
“May I ask what for?” 

“You are suspected of being a Communist spy, and we’re taking you in for questioning,” Agent Wilson told him, taking out handcuffs. 

“Great,” Crowley muttered, pushing his hand through his hair. 

“Turn around, with your hands behind you, Mr. Crowley,” Agent Carlton ordered sternly. 

“I assssure you, thissss is all a missssunderstanding,” Crowley grumbled, complying, too bored too protest. 

“We’ll see about that.”

Crowley winced as a bright light was shone in his face.

“D’you have to have the light so intenssse?” he asked.

His interrogator ignored him, and began with the questioning.  
“You’re a British citizen, correct?”

Crowley nodded. 

“What are you doing in Washington DC, then?” 

“Businessssss”

The interrogator narrowed his eyes.  
“What kind of business?”

“Oh, you know, sssstocks and stuff,” Crowley shrugged.

Apparently, that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. 

“Really? Then, would you mind telling me what ‘blessings’ and ‘temptations’ are supposed to mean?”

Crowley’s eyes widened.  
“Where’re you gettin’ that from?” 

The interrogator smiled.  
“We confiscated your letters to a Mr. Fell, whom, our sources in England informed us, is involved in the Mafia.”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He let out a laugh, before quickly biting his tongue.

“What’s so funny?”

The demon smirked.  
“He’s just a harmlesssss book dealer, ‘s all. The last thing he’d do is be involved in the _Mafia_!” he told him, thoroughly amused.

“According to our sources, he’s hardly sold a single book, and his taxes have been filed perfectly. No one files their taxes _perfectly_.”

Crowley bit his lip to keep from laughing again.  
“Ssssooo, let me get this straight, Missster CIA. You think I’m a spy because you eavessssdropped on my conversations and nicked my mail? You do this to every foreigner?”

“Only the ones that seem suspicious”

Crowley snorted.  
“You Americans are sssssooo paranoid!”

This time, he actually laughed, enjoying the baffled expression on the interrogator's face. 

Although he found his interrogation hilarious, he didn’t quite enjoy what came after, which was a lifetime in prison. Of course, for him, it was only two years before he got bored of inciting prison riots, and escaped. He flew back to England as soon as he could, and wrote up his report for his superiors. As with the Spanish Inquisition, which was coincidentally very similar, Crowley received a glowing commendation for McCarthyism.


	7. The End is Near

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some heavy angst

Crowley parked the Bentley, illegally, of course. He walked up to the front door, and hesitantly knocked. 

“Anthony Crowley! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mary exclaimed when she opened the door. 

“Hiya, Mary. You look great, as usual,” Crowley greeted, handing her a bouquet. 

Mary smiled.  
“I thought you were busy working for that American diplomat,” she said.

“Yeah, well, the little rugrat is off on holiday in France, so I’m off duty, and thought I’d stop by.”

A man walked in, and Mary took him by the shoulder.  
“Jim, this is the famous Anthony Crowley,”

Crowley bowed his head shyly, and shook his hand.  
“Please, call me Crowley. Nobody calls me Anthony unless they’re mad at me.”

“I’m so glad to finally meet you. Freddie’s told me so much about you!” 

“Only bad things, I hope,” Crowley chuckled, “err, speaking of which, where is he?”

“Oh, he’s upstairs with the cats. He’ll be down in a few minutes,”

Mary brought out a plate of biscuits and a pitcher of lemonade.  
“You look like you haven’t eaten in ages, Crowley,” 

“Eh, what can I say, it’s been a stressful ten years,” he shrugged, really not in the mood to talk about himself. 

He had come to see his friends, whom he hadn’t seen in years. It killed him whenever he saw his friend in the news, and he knew his condition was only getting worse. Not only was the world ending, literally, but Crowley sensed that time was running out in another sense. 

Jim left to go get his partner, and Mary turned to Crowley. 

“How are you doing, Crowley?” she asked gently. 

“I’m doing alright, why?” 

Crowley shifted in his seat.

“Crowley, I never said anything before, but now, with, you know, everything, I’m worried about you. You don’t look alright, and we’ve barely heard from you in years. I just want you to take care of yourself. Maybe… go to a doctor?” 

“I come here for a social call, and now you’re staging an intervention,” Crowley grumbled.  
“I told you, I don’t get sick. I’m fine.”

“Crowley, nobody lives forever,”

‘You’d be surprised,’ Crowley thought.

“Crowley, we care about you. You’re looking a lot more haggard since I saw you last.”

“‘M just ssstressssssed. Don’t worry about me”

Mary was about to say something else when Jim returned with Freddie. 

“Crowley!” Freddie grinned, pulling the demon into a hug. 

Crowley grimaced internally when he saw his friend. He did not look well. 

“Darling, you look terrible,” the musician told him when their embrace parted. 

“Sssseriousssssly, Freddie? What about, ‘oh, Crowley, that’ssss a nice tie you’ve got there’, or ‘gee, Crowley, I’ve sseen you’ve done ssssomething new with your hair,’” he teased, trying to hide his worry with humour. 

“I’m sorry. That’s a lovely tie you’ve got. Love the colour. Instead of red, it’s _dark_ red,” Freddie said sarcastically.

“So what brought you here, darling? Better not be any bad news-” he asked, narrowing his eyes, taking in Crowley’s complexion.

“Oh no! I’m just off from work while the Dowlings are in France, and I’ve missed you guys,” Crowley assured him.

“We’ve missed you, too, Crowley. Still got that Bentley?” 

“Of course! If I ever get rid of her, I give you permission to have me locked up and the key thrown out”

Freddie laughed.  
“How’re your plants?” 

“Disciplined. How’re the cats?”

“Little cherubs, as always, spoiled things,” he chuckled.

“I swear, Freddie, they’ve got you wrapped around their little fingers, err, paws.”

They sat on a couch, reminiscing on their escapades in the 70s. It was like old times, and for a moment, Crowley forgot about the steadily ticking clock of mortality. The moment broke when Freddie erupted into a fit of coughs. 

“Sorry, just need a glass of water,” he rasped, and Crowley handed him a cup. 

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Crowley said softly.

“Eh, it’s not like I can stop it,”

“You could retire publicly. Take it easy,” Crowley suggested. 

“I haven’t been doing performances, and besides, who are _you_ to tell me to retire?” Freddie argued. 

“What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself, darling. When we were younger, I thought you just didn’t get enough sun-”

“Yeah, called me a vampire,” Crowley interrupted.

“Crowley, we’re friends, right?”

“‘Course we are, Freddie. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You can tell me anything, darling, believe me, I’m the last person who would judge. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” he said sincerely, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Freddie, I really don’t feel like talking about it,” 

“Alright. I get it,” he nodded in understanding, heaving his chest. 

Crowley felt terrible seeing his friend wither away, and felt worse knowing that even as he was dying, Freddie asked if he was alright. 

“I have to go,” the demon mumbled, rising from his seat.

“But you only just got here! Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah, I jusssssssst….. I have to go,” he muttered, his voice about to break.

“Alright, well, if you’re sure everything is alright-”

Crowley hurried out, giving Mary and Jim a quick goodbye before running to his car. 

He slammed the door closed and leaned on the steering wheel, letting out a broken sob. 

“He’s dying,” he cried, biting his lip until he bled. 

The Bentley started playing “Who Wants to Live Forever,” and Crowley snarled, pulling out the disc and smashing it in his fist. The shards cut into his palm, but he didn’t care. He felt numb and overwhelmed simultaneously. 

“Bassssstard even askssssss me how I’m doing! _Me_!” he wailed, cold terror sinking in.

“Ssssssssstupid humansssssss and their insssssssufferable ssssselflessssssnessssss. As if I’m worth anyone’s worry,” he hissed bitterly. 

“They don’t know what they have coming. They live their short lives thinking they’ll change the world. It’s hopelesssss. It’ssssssss all going to end in a year, anyway.”

His eyes burned, and he trembled.

“Bloody plan. Even if it doessssss work, it’ssssss too late for him. Too late for all of them.”


	8. Post-Apocalyptic

It was exactly a year since Armageddon began, and four pre-pubescent children were huddled around a campfire, celebrating. No, they weren’t celebrating Armageddon, but rather, the twelfth birthday of the ex-Antichrist. 

“Does anyone else have any spooky stories?” Adam asked once Pepper finished her ghost story.

“I don’t have a story, but more of a question,” Wensleysale piped up.

“Yeah?”

“You guys all remember when we saved the world, right?”

They all nodded, and Dog wagged his tail. 

“Who could forget?” 

“Well, we know Anathema and Newt, and we know Mr. Shadwell was Newt’s boss, and that Ms. Potts is now his wife, but what about those other two?” 

“Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell?” 

“Yeah, who _are_ they?”

Adam kept quiet. He wasn’t sure if he could explain it. 

“I think Mr. Fell owns a bookshop in London. My mum once tried to buy a book there, once, I think,” Pepper offered. 

“He does seem like the bookshop owning type,” Brian nodded. 

“Yeah, but what about Mr. Crowley?” 

Pepper wrinkled her forehead in thought.  
“Maybe he’s an alien,” she suggested.

“I thought you said aliens aren’t real!” Wensleydale protested.

“I did, but a lot sort of happened last year to change that. Besides, with all the new discoveries being made, scientists figure that extraterrestrial life ought to exist,” Pepper explained, spearing a sausage. 

“But why would Mr. Crowley be an alien?” Brian wondered.

“Think about it. He probably got bored of whatever planet he came from, and moved to Earth. That’s why he tried to save it.”

“Well, what planet would he come from?” Adam prodded, curious to see what his friend would come up with. 

“Pluto. They don’t have much sun there, so that’s why he’s so pale,” she answered simply.

“Actually, that seems to make a lot of sense. Maybe he came to Earth to sunbathe,” Wensleydale piped up. 

“I think I actually saw him have cat eyes,” Brain continued. 

“D’you think he’s part cat?” Wensleydale asked.

“I’ll bet he’s a ThunderCat,” Brian giggled.

“Those aren’t real!” Pepper chided as she swatted him playfully. 

“Well, if aliens are real, why not ThunderCats?” Adam teased, petting Dog, whose ears perked up every time someone said ‘cat.’

“I wonder if he misses Pluto,” Brian mused between chewing a sticky marshmallow.

“I doubt it. I think he prefers Earth,” Pepper stated firmly. 

“Do you think he still has his spaceship?” 

“No, Brian, I think it was destroyed when he crash landed.”

“Why would it crash land?”

“Because,” Pepper rationalized, “that’s what happens to spaceships and meteors when they enter the atmosphere.”

“I guess he’s lucky he’s still alive”

They all nodded in agreement. 

“Do you think we can see Pluto?” Adam spoke up.

“I don’t think so. It’s too far away,”

“I have an idea. Let’s go try and find Pluto!” he suggested.

“Great idea! We can use your telescope”

“I’ll go get it,” Adam said, running inside.


	9. Retirement

Dr. Myrtle Bartlett had worked as a psychologist for 30 years, and volunteered at a women’s shelter on weekends for the past ten years. Dr. Bartlett never married, but had a lifetime partner, Leslie, whom she had been with for the past twenty years. When Leslie passed away, Dr. Bartlett figured it was finally time to retire, so she tied up any loose ends, and moved to the South Downs. Once she had moved all her boxes and furniture into the house, she set off to the little gardening shop she had seen while driving through the village. Leslie had always said that a potted plant makes a home. 

She was in the shop, browsing the plants, when she heard the screech of tyres and the blaring sound of ‘We Will Rock You.’ 

“What on Earth?” she asked the two teenagers who worked at the shop.

“Oh, that’s Anthony Crowley,” one of the teenagers answered,  
“Mr. Fell’s partner,”  
while the other teen answered, “Mr. Fell’s sugar baby.”

‘Well, then,’ Dr. Bartlett thought to herself. 

She wasn’t one to judge, and as long as the relationship was safe, sane, and consensual for both parties, it wasn’t her place to interfere. 

“Oi! What have you got that doesn’t get cheeky?” she heard a sinuous voice yell, and she turned to see a short, angled man-shaped person walk through the door. 

His dark hair was slicked and tied back into a hairband, and he was wearing sunglasses, even though it was a cloudy day. 

“That’s Crowley,” one of the teens whispered to her before turning to the new customer. 

“You can check our stock, Crowley, but we haven’t gotten any new plants since you came here last.”

“Meh, I’ll see what I can find. Don’t want to keep the spot bare in the greenroom. Ruins the aesthetic, you know,” Crowley said nonchalantly, sauntering up to a shelf of leafy saplings. 

Now, Dr. Bartlett didn’t consider herself a nosy person, but she certainly was a little curious about this Crowley fellow. He seemed friendly enough, but he was strange, and there was a certain ‘wrongness’ about him. Something didn’t seem right. From behind a table of orchids, she watched Crowley milling about. He looked like he might have a limp, or like he was trying too hard to look ‘cool’ while walking.  
Suddenly, she heard what sounded like ‘Do Re Me,’ but with a heavy metal cover. Crowley reached into his pocket and took out his mobile.

“Hey angel,” he greeted cheerfully.

“At the plant shop”

“S not that cold, angel, really.”

“Oh, and I suppose that has to do with my _reptilian_ nature,” he said jokingly. 

“Alright, alright. I won’t stay out too long,” Crowley sighed. 

“Love you too.”

He tapped his mobile and slid it back into his pocket. 

“Bloody bastard,” he muttered, and Dr. Bartlett could have sworn she heard fondness in his tone. 

Very odd. 

She watched as he picked up a plant and unceremoniously dumped a pile of coins at the register. The teen behind the counter just swept the money away as if it was the most common occurrence. 

“Hopefully this one will behave,” he told the teen, “ciao!”

And with that, he left the shop, lugging the plant in his arms. Dr. Bartlett heard the sound of an engine, the final stanza of 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' and a loud squeal which she assumed was Crowley driving away. 

It wasn't until she got home, and settled in to watch some old films, that it seemed to finally click. She felt terribly embarrassed, and guilty, that she hadn't figured it sooner. And after all her years of hard work! It all seemed to make sense now: The sunglasses, the limp, the phone call monitoring his location….

' _But_ ,' a voice in her head reminded her, 'he didn't show any signs of distress. And he seemed perfectly happy on the phone.'  
Dr. Bartlett relaxed a little. That was true. So, he was a little odd, but she shouldn't jump to conclusions. 

'Stockholm Syndrome!' another voice sang as she made her coffee. 

'I'll keep an eye out for him,' she resolved, calming her nerves. He wasn't a patient, and she didn't even have any proof he needed help, anyway. 

The next day, she decided to have a stroll around town, and spotted a bakery. She wandered in, and was delighted to see that they had a lovely selection of pastries. As she ate her pastry inside the warm shop, she heard the unmistakable sound of reckless driving that she had heard the day before. She peered out the window, and this time she could see that the car was a sleek, black vintage Bentley, and, given her impression of its owner, she wasn't exactly surprised. Dr. Bartlett discreetly watched as Crowley slowly climbed out of the car, and her eyes widened when she saw him take out a cane. She jumped from her seat and opened the door, just as he walked in. 

"Thanks,"

"Probably shouldn't've stayed out so long, but, ce la vie," he told her, nodding to his cane. 

He idled up to the counter, where the baker smiled at him. 

"How's the angel?" she asked.

"Oh, you know how he is. Pretty pissed I was out yesterday. Thought I'd make it up to him," he chuckled, inspecting the array of baked goods. 

"So, I take it, something with chocolate?"

"Nah, we still have a Black Forest Cake at home. Got anything with berries?" 

The baker proceeded to show Crowley what she had in stock, and Dr. Bartlett sipped her coffee pensively. Alarm bells had gone off in her head the moment Crowley mentioned that his cane was a result of him staying out too long, and now that Crowley had said that his partner was angry, well, that seemed to confirm all her suspicions. 

A huge part of her wanted to approach Crowley now, but her years of experience told her that she hadn't fully assessed the situation yet. Besides, she hadn't even met the elusive Mr. Fell. If he had already hurt Crowley, which she now strongly suspected he did, who knew what _else_ he was capable of. She had to be smart about this. 

A day later, she walked up the path to a tidy cottage that according to the baker, was where Mr. Fell and Crowley lived. The Bentley was parked in front, so Crowley must be home. Balancing a tray of biscuits in one hand, she summoned all her courage and rapped on the door. 

A few moments later, a bookish-looking man-shaped-being opened the door. 

"Hello?" he said sweetly. 

Of all the kinds of people Dr. Bartlett was expecting, she was not expecting this kind of person. She quickly caught her bearings, though, and introduced herself. 

"I'm Dr. Myrtle Bartlett. I just moved here, and I thought I'd introduce myself to my neighbours. This is the home of Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley?"

"Oh, it's just the Fell-Crowleys, dear. We're married now, you see," he explained, lighting up when he said 'married.'

Dr. Bartlett softened a bit. But then she had to remind herself that abusers are also deceptive.

"Well, I brought biscuits-"

"Oh how lovely! Do come inside, my dear," he exclaimed, ushering her inside. 

Dr. Bartlett stood awkwardly in the vestibule, until Mr. Fell led her to the living room.

"Do sit down, I'll have tea ready in a tic," he told her happily, and left to the kitchen

Dr. Bartlett took in her surroundings. The living room seemed to be a mix of antique charm and modern minimalism. A lace doily was laid on the geometric coffee table, and a fluorescent tube lamp sat next to what Dr. Bartlett figured was a very old typewriter. She wasn't much of an interior designer, but the little knowledge she had from television told her that everything in the room positively clashed. Still, it seemed to fit, in a strange sort of way. 

"Hey Azira-" 

She turned around, startled, to see Crowley, only he looked very different from when she last saw him. He was wearing purple shorts and a light blue t-shirt, exposing his long, bony limbs, which, Dr. Bartlett noted, were very pale. He was wearing strange snakeskin shoes that seemed to blend in with his ghostly skin, some sort of newfangled form-fitting technology, she figured. His hair, instead of being done neatly, was unkempt, as if he had just gotten out of bed. Strangest of all were his eyes, which, much to Dr. Bartlett's relief, were not bruised, but were all yellow save for slitted black pupils.

"Sssshit!" Crowley cursed, and spun around, hiding his face. 

"Wait- Anthony is it?" she said quickly before Crowley could run off. 

"Jusssst Crowley's fine," he mumbled, still keeping his face hidden. 

"I didn't mean to scare you. We've met before, right?" she told him gently, respecting his space and not coming any closer. 

"Yeah. Bakery, right?" 

"I just moved here, and I came to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Myrtle Bartlett."

" _Doctor_ , huh? Come here to study the wildlife?" he asked, and she chose to ignore the snark. She was making conversation. This was good. 

"Oh no. I'm not that kind of doctor," she chuckled.

"Oh! You've met Dr. Bartlett!" Mr. Fell exclaimed, entering the room with the tea tray. 

"Angel….you didn't tell me we had a vissssitor," she heard Crowley whisper to Mr. Fell. 

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, my love. I didn't want to wake you, and you know how you get in this cold weather," Mr. Fell apologized, "here, darling, if you want."

He handed Crowley a pair of sunglasses, which Dr. Bartlett was sure weren't in his hand before. Crowley quickly put them on, and turned to face her, his confidence restored.

"What exactly are you a doctor of?" he questioned, jumping right back into their conversation. 

"Psychology. But I'm retired now," she answered as Mr. Fell set the tray on the table. 

"Interesting. I did a bit of dabbling in that field in, what was it, angel? The fifties?"

"1952, my love," Mr. Fell confirmed.

"Yeah, helped publish that American diagnostic book," he said absently, sitting on the couch. 

"The DSM?" Dr. Bartlett asked incredulously, at this point positive that Crowley and Mr. Fell were sharing some joke they hadn't let her in on.  
There was no way Crowley was alive in the 50s. Mr. Fell, maybe, but he couldn't be any older than her, and she was just a little girl in the 50s. 

"Yeah, that's the one. Don't know why Aziraphale here doesn't collect 'em. He collects Bibles, y'know. They're of the same stock, really."

"They most certainly are _not_ of the same stock, my dear," Mr. Fell huffed indignantly, snatching a biscuit.

"They really are, though, when you think of it," Crowley shrugged.  
"Both attempt to explain the ineffability of mankind."

"I suppose you do have a point-"

"And," Crowley added, smirking, "both lead to massive controversies and endless debates."

"Really, my dear," Aziraphale sighed affectionately. 

Observing the couple interact, Dr. Bartlett came upon a few conclusions. One, they had clearly known each other a long time. Two, that, judging by his eloquence, perhaps Crowley was a little older than he appeared. And three, they were very much in love. 

"How long have you lived in this area?" she asked politely. 

"Oh, about five years now. It really is a lovely place, very quiet," Aziraphale replied, sipping his tea. 

"It is quite lovely," she agreed. 

"Right. Well, I'm going to go to the greenhouse," Crowley said abruptly, getting up.  
"Nice meeting you, Dr. Bartlett."

"Do you need your cane, dear?" Aziraphale called after him as he made his way out of the room.

"Nah, I can manage," Crowley responded over his shoulder. 

"I keep telling him not to push himself," Aziraphale said, shaking his head.  
"Always stubborn, he is."

"Oh, I know too well. My partner used to insist on helping around the house, even when the doctors told her to stay in bed," she said, smiling with a twinge of sadness.

"Used to?" 

"She passed away about a year ago."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, my dear," Aziraphale apologized, looking embarrassed.

"It's alright. She lived a good life. She was the one who suggested I move here, you know," she revealed.

"Really?"

"She wanted me to be able to start over, and be happy."

"Well, it certainly is a nice place to start over," Aziraphale agreed, and she sensed a deeper meaning behind his words. 

Back at home, Dr. Bartlett glanced at the framed picture of her and Leslie. 

"This certainly is strange," she murmured, running her finger on glass.

"But it's a good strange. Don't think I'll get bored here," she chuckled.

"I can't wait to tell you all about it."


	10. Junk Mail

“Darling, we have mail,” Aziraphale announced, dropping a stack of envelopes on the table. 

Crowley looked up from his mobile. Aziraphale could hear the familiar cheer of the Angry Birds. 

“Yeah?”

He picked up the stack, flipping through the envelopes.

“Junk, junk, junk,” he mumbled, tossing the envelopes into the bin.

“How do you know that, Crowley? You haven’t even read them!” 

“Don’t need to, angel. I recognize the signature of my demotic handiwork,” Crowley chuckled, but then his expression stilled, and he froze.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale asked with concern.

Crowley just trembled and nodded to the final envelope in his hands.  
Aziraphale stood up and gently took the envelope from his partner’s stiff palm.

“Oh dear,” he muttered when he saw the hauntingly familiar seal of Hell’s Dark Council.

“What do they want from me?” Crowley whispered, falling into his seat.

“I’m sure it’s just some bureaucratic nonsense,” Aziraphale tried assuring the demon, but he was doubtful.

“Read it?” Crowley asked softly. 

“Are you sure? We don’t have to-”

“Ignoring it is only prolonging the inevitable,” Crowley sighed, “‘Sides, they always write them in the smallest font ‘cause they know it hurts to try and read it.”

“Alright, dear,” Aziraphale said softly, taking out the letter.

“Demon Crawly, Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Man,” he read.

“This here reads the official statement of the Dark Council regarding the work done beginning January, 2020, the year of the adversary.  
Although your actions regarding Armageddon in 1991 are inexcusable and unforgivable, your recent activity on the grand scale has been brought to our attention. 

The activity is thus far the following:

*The Australian Bush Fire  
*The American Persian Gulf Crisis  
*The American Political Situation  
*The Emergence of SARS-CoV2  
*The United Kingdom’s departure from the European Union  
*The Delhi Riots  
*The Stock Market Crash  
*The SARS-CoV2 Pandemic and all the consequences as a result  
*The Ebola Epidemic  
*The Mexico Earthquake

We are immensely impressed with your work. We have been closely monitoring activity suspected of being your doing, and it appears your demonic work has been steadily increasing in the past twenty years. No doubt you are trying to earn your place back in the legions of Hell following your embarrassing display in 1991. If your work continues to progress in the despicable scale it is now, we are certain that in a century or two, you will removed from your status of shame as a traitor to your kind. For now, we commend you for your efforts and look forward to see what you come up with in the next months. If these past months have been any indication, we have high hopes that you will outdo yourself.

All Hail Satan,  
Signed,  
Dagon, Lord of the Files and Master of Torments”

“Oh dear,” was all Aziraphale could say when he finished reading.

Crowley looked devastated, as if all the life had been sucked from his eyes.

“I can’t believe they asssssumed it was me,” he finally said sadly.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Aziraphale apologized, kneeling by his side. 

“I know I’m a demon, but I’m not a monsssssster, Aziraphale. Only the humans can do that.”

He leaned on his partner, and let him stroke his hair.  
“This is the Inquisssssssition all over again.”

“My dear, is there anything I can do?” Aziraphale asked, taking the demon’s hands in his own. 

“Ngh. I just want the world to get better. It’s just getting worse and worse and worssssssse, and I feel so uselessssssssss,” Crowley sobbed.

“I know, dear. Sometimes I feel the same way.”

“Why isn't your side doing anything?” the demon demanded.

“I don’t know, my love. I think they’ve agreed to a deal of neutrality.”

“Well, we saw how that alwayssssss works out. Remember the World Wars?”

“Too well, unfortunately.”

“And the humans are being sssssooooo stupid! It’s like they don’t even care,” Crowley gesticulated from where he now sat on the floor in Aziraphale’s lap.

“All too human, I’m afraid,” the angel sighed.

Crowley shuddered, and cuddled closer to his partner, searching for warmth.

“Dear?” Aziraphale spoke after a few minutes of contemplative silence.

“Yeah?”

“I know we’ve been helping the humans from afar, but what if we went a step further?” he suggested.

“You mean go out into the field?” 

“Why not? It would be great to get out of the cottage.” 

“It would be a great way to stick it to Hell,” Crowley agreed. 

“And Heaven,” the angel added somberly.

“We’ll see what they need. A miracle discovery here, a billionaire tempted to donate there. Just enough to ensure they survive,” Crowley reasoned.

“They’ll get through this, Crowley,” Aziraphale said earnestly, emboldened with hope.

“They will. We’ll make sure of it,” Crowley insisted, optimistically hoping to convince himself.

“To the world”


End file.
